


Blue

by overlordy



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Character Death, M/M, Male Hunter OC, but it's just what happens in canon, just a little bit, terminal illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 18:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8172055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overlordy/pseuds/overlordy
Summary: “I see.” The hunter hears the wooden creaking once more and imagines Gilbert sitting back in his chair. He coughs, quiet, less severe than the ones before. “Is it beautiful, good hunter? The night, and Yharnam?”
The hunter considers the question, turning his head to look out over the city. Smoke billows up in some places. The pointed edges of tall, imposing buildings reach up into the sky, but the moon hangs high, resolute. “Yes,” he replies, focused on the night before him. “It is.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> da boo dee da boo die
> 
> someone on tumblr asked me if ive written anything for bloodborne and. well.

“...and I’m afraid I may not be of help for much longer.”

A harsh bout of wet coughs follow Gilbert’s statement, rattling against the glass panes and iron bars of his window. The good hunter stares at the bars, his ears full of the pained hacking of a man whose face he has never seen. He imagines a hand, youthful yet weak with sickness, coming away wet with blood. The same substance drips off his cleaver and his clothing, seems to pour off him in rivulets, inescapable. 

Usually he pays no mind to the stench and warmth of blood, having become desensitized to the horror of taking lives and quite adept at warding off unsightly temptations. Tonight, though, as the moon lounges in the sky, shrouded in thin, silver clouds and watching with an impassive gaze as horrors occur on the land just below, the thought of Gilbert’s blood… it unsettles him. The conjured image of a dying man choking up his own blood twists the good hunter’s gut in a way that no gruesome image has managed to accomplish since the day he arrived in this God forsaken town and received his transfusion.

He mulls over his perplexing emotions. The image of a faceless man coughing up his own tainted blood plays over and over before his eyes, stirring up deep feelings of unease. He turns and leans against the wrought-iron fence that separates the good hunter and Gilbert’s window, carefully avoiding the sharpened points that threaten to dig into his lower back. Though Gilbert had fallen silent while he had been lost in his own thoughts, the hunter derives some form of comfort from his presence, tangible even through the murky panes of an old window. He wishes to stay, just a little longer, with the calming scent of incense swirling around him. He wishes to be swept away by the seductive pull of a rare and unfamiliar comfort such as company that isn’t currently trying to maul him.

( _ Yet _ , reminds a tiny voice in the back of his head. He quiets it. No need to dwell on those sorts of things. Gilbert will make it through his illness, or die before he transforms. He is sure of it.)

Well, he’s not one to ignore his own instincts. They’ve gotten him this far, why disregard them now? Besides, he cannot remember the last time where he had a moment of reprieve outside of the Hunter’s Dream. The lantern and its messengers beckon him, just out of the corner of his eye, but he ignores the safety of the Dream in favor of sliding to the filthy, cold cobblestone road. His clothes rustle as he shifts into a passably comfortable position- never  _ fully _ comfortable,  _ comfort _ is a word that doesn’t exist in Yharnam- with one leg stretched out and the other propped up, supporting his blood-drenched cleaver as he rests it on his thighs. His hand is tight around it. Afflicted Huntsmen have yet to confront him when he’s near the lantern, but being alert never hurt anyone.

He hears a soft noise of peaked attention behind him, just above his right ear. He can imagine Gilbert, sat in a rickety old chair close to the wall, his health fading fast, holding on only for the lone hunter who sticks around far too often for some indiscernible reason.

Gilbert stays silent for a moment longer, then chuckles, to the hunter’s surprise. “You’re still here, are you?” he asks, and dimly the hunter can hear a faint, rhythmic tapping through the wall. Puzzled, he stares over his shoulder and the nondescript bricks. The tapping repeats itself and, on a whim, the good hunter reaches between the bars and taps back. He’s never been one for rhythm. He hopes Gilbert doesn’t mind his clumsy tapping too much.

He wonders why he cares.

“Oh, good, you  _ are _ still there,” he hears a thoughtful hum, “I was wondering if, perhaps, I had imagined hearing you moving out there.” Gilbert pauses to cough, the sound deep and rattling and twisting the good hunter’s chest. He wishes to help in anyway he can, but Gilbert’s door remains resolutely locked. Keep out the dangers of the hunt. Keep in the sickness.

He doesn’t know what he would do if Gilbert allowed him to enter his home, anyway. The kindness seems too wildly out of place to accept. Once his fit passes, Gilbert clears his throat and continues speaking. “It’s funny, I think. You don’t usually stay this long. I understand, though, hunters have to hunt. But…”

Gilbert’s words trail off into more restless coughing. The hunter lowers his head, hiding his frown behind his face-cover. His glasses slide down his nose, but he doesn’t move to push them back into place, too afraid of breaking the calm that settled over him and his companion.

“Ah, forgive me,” Gilbert rasps, and the hunter imagines his throat rubbed raw from coughing. He wishes to soothe the hurt, somehow, but that’s out of his power. All he can do is tear. “This affliction is taking its toll. I can feel it, creeping through my blood, ever so slowly,” Gilbert’s tone turns hateful. The hunter imagines bloodied hands clenching into fists. His brows furrow. “I loathe being in here. Trapped, caged, left to die and transform in my own filth… I can hardly move. If I could, I would be out there, with you, cleansing the streets, illness be damned.”

The hunter’s eyebrows lift in surprise. In the few hours that he had known Gilbert, he never heard him speak with such… fervor. He always seems so resigned to his fate, but the hunter’s persistent presence appears to have renewed some sort of energy in him. As he speaks of the hunt with such passion, such longing, the good hunter cannot help but ponder his friend’s past.

_ Friend. _ What an odd word to use on this night.

“In any matter, it can’t be helped. I would be more hindrance than help to you, especially in this state,” Gilbert sighs, resignation seeping into his soft, accented voice once more. The hunter closes his eyes, shifts, hears the distant cry of those Afflicted wandering the streets in mobs, smells and tastes acrid smoke and blood mingling with incense in the air, stinging his throat and his eyes. He wonders when he last experienced clean, fresh air. It seems like centuries ago, now.

“No,” says the hunter, and an immediate  _ thump _ from the wall behind him signifies surprise. He smiles and imagines Gilbert starting at the sound of his voice, harsh and raspy from smoke and disuse, being a man of few words. It isn’t like he can communicate with the beasts.

“No?” Gilbert echoes, and the hunter hears a wooden creak. He imagines Gilbert shifting in his chair. How does he look? Confused at the hunter’s abrupt statement? Intrigued by the first word he has heard his ever-silent visitor utter? It pains the hunter to be blind to the inner workings of whomever, or whatever, he’s with. He’s too used to reading things. Reading people.

How odd, indeed. He hasn’t felt the need to read someone in a long, long time. “You… don’t want to be out. Not this night.”

“What are you saying?” Gilbert snaps, indignant.

“Please,” the hunter whispers, already overwhelmed by speaking just this much. He wishes for untainted water, some sort of reprieve for his burning throat. The more he lingers with Gilbert, the more he feels the pressing weight of his own humanity. The Dream provides such a tantalizing facade of immortality. He almost presses away from the window and the faceless, yet kind, man behind it. His heart isn’t in the motion, so he stays.

At least he knows he’s still human. That’s one positive outcome of whatever…  _ this _ is.

“Please what?” Gilbert prompts, his voice gleeful, eager to hear what might be the first friendly voice he’s heard all night. The hunter imagines him smiling, then imagines his lips.

“Don’t… misunderstand. I am not saying you’re weak,” the hunter searches for words, careful with his sentences. It would be a shame to muck up his first vocal interaction with someone. “This hunt, it’s… wrong. You understand, don’t you? The chances of Yharnam’s survival are slim.”

“This hunt certainly has gone on too long.”

“Yes,” the hunter agrees, and he looks up into the dark sky. If he squints passed the muck dotting his glasses he can almost make out a few glimmering points in the darkness. Stars. “...The moon has risen, Gilbert.”

“How long ago?”

The hunter shrugs, but then recalls that his friend cannot see the gesture. “I don’t know, can't be more than a few hours. Feels like forever.”

“I see.” The hunter hears the wooden creaking once more and imagines Gilbert sitting back in his chair. He coughs, quiet, less severe than the ones before. “Is it beautiful, good hunter? The night, and Yharnam?”

The hunter considers the question, turning his head to look out over the city. Smoke billows up in some places. The pointed edges of tall, imposing buildings reach up into the sky, but the moon hangs high, resolute. “Yes,” he replies, focused on the night before him. “It is.”

“Good,” Gilbert sighs, “good. I’m… glad. Maybe, if I’m lucky, I’ll last long enough to see the sunrise.”

“I’m sure you will, Gilbert. I’ll watch it with you.”

Gilbert laughs, wet and hoarse and it soon transforms into more coughing, but it’s perfect, full of delight and so unlike the harsh laughter of the Afflicted he’s been privy to all night. His chest twists with longing. He wants to see that laugh, not just hear it. “Thank you. That means a lot to me, good hunter.” The hunter nods, the motion unseen by his temporary companion. He shifts. He can feel the spell that fell over them fading. He can feel the hunt calling to him once more, persistent, like an itch he must scratch. He stands, ignoring the aches his movement rouses in his overworked muscles.

“Wait,” Gilbert gasps, and the hunter hears a tapping against the glass. He taps back, letting Gilbert know he’s still there, still listening. “What’s your name, good hunter?”

He hesitates, his mind reeling at the simple request. His name? His gloved hand comes to his head, struggling over such a mundane concept as identity. He’s just an outsider, just a hunter. Just…

“Jeremiah,” he says, despite everything ingrained in him screaming in protest.

“Well, Jeremiah,” Gilbert replies, and his name on Gilbert’s tongue makes Jeremiah’s heart leap. “Good hunting. I await your return.”

“...Of course.”

He lingers until the singing of the blood grows too loud to be ignored. He walks away with sure footsteps, leaving behind a murky window, shrouded by iron bars, and holding someone undeniably precious to him. He wants to see the sunrise, too.

He’s not used to having motivation in the hunt, but he won’t complain.

* * *

 

Hours, or days, or weeks, pass. However long it had been, it was too long, and more often than not Jeremiah found his thoughts straying towards his faceless friend, the one beacon of hope amongst the grime and filth of the hunt. He finds he cannot keep himself away, no matter how ruthless his enemies or how tantalizing the thrill of the hunt. Once more he wanders to Gilbert’s window under the pretense of collecting more blood vials, and he just so  _ happened _ to stop by. The excuse is laughable even in his own mind.

The sky darkens further when he next arrives. The moonlight bathes the tiny courtyard in a luminous silver glow, brightened further by the hopeful beacon cast by the lantern. For once, everything seems calm. Jeremiah quiets his breaths, draws them with care, worried about upsetting the reverent stillness that settles about him. Him, and the softly glowing panes of a dirty window.

He walks up to the window and pauses, waiting for his friend to sense his presence and engage in conversation. He’s more willing to become an active participant, now. He imagines sitting for hours upon hours in this stillness, talking about nonsensical, unimportant things with Gilbert. It paints a pretty picture in his mind.

He waits, and waits. It’s quiet inside that house. Panic flares up in his chest, images flashing in his mind’s eye of his dear friend, collapsed inside of his home, alone and dying, or worse, his body transforming into a misshapen beast, his skin tearing and the light fleeing from his eyes, undoubtedly beautiful.

Jeremiah steels himself for the task of breaking down Gilbert’s front door himself, courtesy and sickness be damned, when the soft, yet laborious, breaths of his friend meets his ears, barely audible from behind the wall. Relieved, he lowers his cleaver and returns to the window, listening for the kind words Gilbert has for him today.

The labored wheezes transform into haggard coughs, blunt in reminding Jeremiah of the severity of Gilbert’s illness. He wonders how long Gilbert has been sick, how long until… No, don’t think of that now. He stands, patiently waiting for the fit to pass.

It doesn’t.

Through his convulsing coughs, Gilbert manages a few weak words. The hunter imagines them spoken through bloodied lips, twisted in pain. “Why… me… why?”

He feels his heart sink, crushed by the startling and unbearable weight of the reality presented to him. Gilbert’s dying.

_ No. _ He can’t be. He’s struggled through so much of his illness and remained kind and resolute through it, he can’t let it take him now. He reaches out, an unconscious movement, to try and comfort, reassure, but all he can do is grip the iron bars blocking the window.

“Dear gods… what have I done?”

_ Nothing _ , he wants to say,  _ you’ve done nothing wrong. This isn’t your fault. _ The words refuse to come. All he can do is stand, tight-lipped and solemn, as his friend whispers his woes through murky panes of glass.

“Save me, please…”

He hears Gilbert’s voice wobble and crack on the beginning of a sob, and he moves closer, until the wrought-iron fence prevents him from closing the distance between him and that window. He flinches, a movement he hasn’t done in years, and tightens his grip around the bar in his hand, satisfied to feel it creak under his strength.

“Save me, Jer-”

The utterance of his name tapers off into wrenching coughs and Jeremiah takes a step back, releasing the iron bar, which sports a dent in the shape of his fingers. The hunter fights for breath, as if he is the one afflicted.

_ Save him _ . What can he do? He’s powerless out here, on his own. Eileen and Alfred are the only two he thinks of who could possibly aid him and his friend, but he hasn’t seen them in hours. Weeks? Months?

“I’ll try,” he whispers, his promise barely audible over Gilbert’s hacking. He doubts his friend can hear him. “I swear to you, I will save you. I will. We’ll see the sunrise together. I promise.”

With those words hanging heavy in the air, he turns with a sweep of his jacket and sprints off, to do what he can. To fix things, to make the world good again. For him.

* * *

 

Rom, the vacuous spider, has fallen to his blade. The Blood Moon hangs low in the sky, casting the world below in an unearthly scarlet glow and throwing deep purples across the night sky. The stars have disappeared and grotesque monsters have taken their place. Everything just seems  _ wrong _ and Jeremiah can’t help but wonder if, maybe, he made a mistake.

He can taste dawn on the horizon. He’s so close. Gilbert just needs to hang on for a few hours more, then he will bring the sunrise. Only for him.

He ascends the ladder before Gilbert’s home, and as he lifts himself over the ledge, a horrid shriek meets his ears. He doesn’t even think, doesn’t pause to gauge the situation, all he knows is that the rancid claws of a beast are descending upon him. He doesn’t hesitate when he plunges the teeth of his cleaver into its chest and rips with all his might.

It cries out in pain and goes down with that lone strike, its blood spilling over his clothes. He’s used to it, at this point, doesn’t even flinch when a fleck of the thick stuff lands on his glasses. As the beast dies, he takes some time to examine it, puzzled. It appears to be a beast from Old Yharnam, but how could it have gotten here? In these innumerable hours, he has never seen one outside of Old Yharnam. They never pursue him past that lantern. So why…?

With a start, he remembers Gilbert, and immediately chastises himself for forgetting. His poor friend must have been startled by the wretched thing. He walks towards the familiar window, ready to tell his companion that the beast has been slain, that he needn’t worry.

He freezes mid-step. His eyes train on the window, murky glass lying shattered on the ground below. The bars are bent outwards and littered with claw marks.

Slowly, disbelief fluttering in his chest, he turns back towards the body of the beast. Its blood is still warm against his clothes. Its fur bends in a faint breeze, parts around a warped, yet youthful face, not far from his own age, perhaps. Past the misshapen fangs, he might have been handsome.

Its- his- empty eyes stare up towards the sky. They’re a striking shade of blue.

He feels as though he received a blast of numbing mist straight to the chest. A strange calm settles over him, pressing down on the grief that threatens to rise up in his throat. Not now, not here. It’s not safe. Showing weakness out here means death. His hands shake despite his best efforts to keep calm. He falls to his knees, his cleaver clattering out of his hands. He doesn’t spare it a glance. Just the thought of that weapon makes him sick. He’s going to have to change to something else. He needs to make use of the Flamesprayer. He…

A sob catches in his throat. All he can do is kneel beside the plagued corpse of his friend. He maintains a silent vigil, the Blood Moon hanging low in the sky, bathing the sticky, warm blood on his clothes and on the ground in soft light.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I couldn’t save you.”

He’ll press onward. Though the weight of his grief pulls him to the ground and tells him to stay, hunched over the corpse of what used to be Gilbert, he must continue forth. He must end the hunt. He must bring the sun.

It’s what he would have wanted.


End file.
